Chemical Defects
by Sandylee007
Summary: MY VERSION OF HOW SERIES 4 BEGINS. Once again the bottom drops from the world of Dr. John Watson when he loses his wife and their daughter. Will he manage to pick himself up once more or will his spirit run out? Sherlock Holmes tries to help but what can he do with a problem that is so far from his own element?


A/N: Honestly, I didn't imagine starting a new project. But I've missed typing 'Sherlock' fics so, so much that I just couldn't help myself. So… Here we are. (grins sheepishly)

DISCLAIMER: Oh boy, if only...! But nope, I have no ownership over the characters. I just enjoy toying with them from time to time.

WARNINGS: CHARACTER DEATH (which the summary gives away, I suppose, heh!), language, adult themes, perhaps a hint of blood and injury… Hmph, a surprisingly tame list for my story – at least for now… But I'm rating this M just in case, since I never know what my head cooks up.

Awkay, before I chicken out… Here we go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

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><p><strong><em>Chemical Defects<em>**

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><p>How the World Crumbles<p>

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><p>Expecting the birth of a child is one of the most exciting times in a parent's life. Full of magic and wonder. Bullocks, thought one Dr. John Watson.<p>

He went to a war. He'd been trapped to a vest of explosives. He had a former assassin for a wife and a quite possibly mad consulting detective for a best friend. Either one of them could've easily killed him. Hell, one of them was most likely going to be the death of him, one day. And now the unpredictable, pitch black and highly threatening shadow of James Moriarty was looming above them once more. The man who threatened his life, along with DI Gregory Lestrade's and Martha Hudson's, and actually stole Sherlock Holmes for over two years, was possibly back.

Yet somehow, impossibly, Mary Watson's steadily growing stomach succeeded in being the single most terrifying thing in his life. What did that say about the state of his head? What sort of a father did that make out of him?

Good grief, he was going to become a father!

According to his quite unhelpful therapist it was perfectly natural to be scared. His life was changing dramatically, after all. At that John wanted to roll his eyes and only his good manners stopped him. Life, changing dramatically?

That was the death of his parents.

That was Harry's first drunken arrest.

That was getting shot and losing the bottom from his life.

That was Sherlock's… fall.

That was discovering that his wife had almost succeeded in killing his best friend.

That was having Sherlock saying goodbye to him all over again, although this time the duration was closer to twenty minutes than over two years.

There'd been so much chaos in John's life that something as natural as a child… felt almost impossible to comprehend. He was excited, of course he was, but for the longest time he'd assumed and accepted that fatherhood was one of those aspects of life that wasn't meant for him. And if he thought about himself and Mary… How in the world was a child going to fit together with their lifestyle? Because soon as the complications following Magnussen's death, which he refused to call by its real name, would be settled he'd be running beside Sherlock again. He couldn't see any other option. As for Mary… Who knew how many shadows and how dark there were following her footsteps. And they, of all people, would be trusted with a child?

So no, John wasn't dealing with his life changing dramatically, he was trying to keep himself from going into a full blown panic attack just thinking about it all. The poor child! His poor little girl wouldn't have a single person around her who hadn't killed or had someone killed without hesitation! Or well, there was always Molly Hooper. A coroner.

John, of course, couldn't tell his therapist any of that. Or Mary, who was pregnant and terrifyingly hormonal. So, out of all possible options of the face of fine planet Earth he chose to approach Sherlock. And tried not to wonder what it said about his mental health.

Mrs. Hudson was there at the door to greet him, as though led by some mysterious sixth sense. "John!" she exclaimed, her voice as full of joy as the hug she folded him into. Then she pushed at his good shoulder and fixed a firm, admonishing look at him. "Now where in the world have you been? Sherlock's been sulking and playing his violin throughout nights. And the smell coming out of the flat…! I haven't dared to set a foot in there in days." She then frowned. "Is Mary alright? And the baby?"

John smiled. A bizarre warmth began to swell inside him. "They're both fine. Any day, now." He then cleared his throat, his thoughts roaming. "I'll just, uh… I'll go and see that there's no need to call the fire department or National Poisons Information Service again."

"Again?"

Ignoring her, John climbed up the comfortingly familiar stairs. The foul smell Mrs. Hudson mentioned met his nose halfway there and he shivered. How in the world had none of the neighbors had Sherlock evicted yet?

Sherlock had been quite adamant in refusing to take away his key so John opened the door. The smell made him recoil a step or two but he pushed on with the sheer willpower of a soldier. "Sherlock?" He groaned, walking further although all his self preservation instincts screamed against it. "You and your bloody experiments…!"

John wasn't exactly surprised to find that the apartment was a mess. Dust, unfinished, still active and finished experiments having taken up a quite unhealthy amount of room. Finally, miraculously managing to reach the kitchen without injuring himself, the doctor found the flat's occupant.

As it was Sherlock stood before his microscope. The detective stared at something so intently that the man didn't seem to be even breathing. Then spoke without a warning. "Well, since you're here make yourself useful." A demanding hand reached out towards him. "Hand me the milk."

John obeyed, his expression a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. "So that's where it always vanished…", he mused. Then peered towards what his friend was examining. "What… is that?" he had to ask in the end.

"A kidney, acid marinated", the detective announced while carefully inserting a few drops of milk and watching intently.

John shivered. He wasn't sure if what the detective was up to or his own immediate acceptance towards it was more worrisome. "Is that causing this smell?"

"Nope." Sherlock, apparently, had enough of the experiment and pushed the microscope away. "That would be the ears." There was a frown, with some deep thoughtfulness and displeasure. "I may have overdone with the oven."

It took a lot more than it should've to hold back a laugh. Nothing new, then. Or that's what John thought until he took a better look at his friend. Even without Sherlock's deduction skills he could tell that the man hadn't been sleeping or eating. But at least, despite his years as a physician, he couldn't find traces of drug use and he took that as a small victory. He wondered how many nicotine patches staying clean had required this time. Clearly being basically under house arrest still, weeks after nearly having been sent to who knows where, was taking its toll.

John sighed. "I'm… sorry, that I haven't been visiting. But… It's almost _time_ and I've been busy." A lame excuse, really.

Of course Sherlock bought none of it. The annoyance was palpable. "You hardly need to explain spending time with your wife to me, John."

Oh no, John wasn't letting that hostile tone chase him away. He took a deep breath, then ventured on. "So… How have you been?" No answer. Predictable enough. "Any word on Moriarty?"

Sherlock actually looked at him. Albeit briefly. "No."

"Would you tell me if there had been?"

There was no change in Sherlock's expression but those eyes… They were a entirely different story. There was a flash of such protective flare, inferno really, that it was nearly terrifying. He'd seen similar in Mary's. They were entirely too similar, those two. The answer was, as always, that of brutal honesty. "No."

The silence that lingered, persisted, was oddly heavy. Full of things that wanted to come out but couldn't quite find the way. In the end John took a deep breath. Finally ready for the question that'd scared him to stay away from Baker Street lately. "Sherlock…" He swallowed thickly, picking up every little bit of his courage. "Why… did you say goodbye? There at the airfield?"

Sherlock stiffened, to an extend that shouldn't have been possible for a human being. For several stilled moments there were no masks, lies or faked emotions. And those eyes… They were so full of sentiment that in some other situation the irony might've made John laugh out loud. It was baffling to see so many emotions on a man who claimed to be a sociopath.

And then the sound of John's cell phone shattered the moment.

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><p>Sherlock, despite trying his hardest to listen, couldn't hear a word from the other end of John's phone call. But the doctor's reactions spoke loudly enough. At first the smaller man listened with an expression of shock and disbelief, all color draining slowly yet steadily from his face. And then the former soldier bolted, at a speed Sherlock had never, ever seen before.<p>

He, of course, never saw John running towards him after the fall.

Absolutely all of Sherlock wanted to run after John. But the cursed, metallic band around his ankle kept him rooted to the spot. According to Mycroft it was the only thing keeping him from a prison or worse, but in his own opinion he could've just as well been locked up properly. And when the door slammed after John Sherlock would've given a lot if he would've been able to scream out loud, at the top of his lungs. But he remained still as a statue, barely even breathing, and not for the first time wondered if having six months to live would've been more merciful.

Sixty-two minutes and thirteen seconds passed by, each of them feeling longer than a lifetime. Then, finally, Sherlock's cell phone came to life. He replied in a matter of seconds upon noticing that it was Greg. "What is it?" he demanded instantly, his voice even more harsh than he'd intended.

There was a torturously long pause until Greg sighed heavily. Like a man who had the weight of the world on their shoulders. "_It's… It's Mary, and the baby. I can't… I'll tell you everything, later, but now... Now I have to go back to John. I just..._" The next sigh shuddered, badly. "_They… They're dead, Sherlock. And… They had to sedate John. He's… He needs to stay here for a bit. But… Could you…?_"

Everything was spinning and whirring inside Sherlock. His stomach twisted to knots. Talking required a lot more effort than he'd expected. "Bring him here as soon as they let him leave", he commanded. "And give me answers." With that he hung up.

For the longest time Sherlock stood frozen, the weight of what he'd just heard washing over him. Once again he wanted to scream, even tried to, but the only sound that came from him was a wounded whimper. So instead he took the experiment he'd been working on all morning and threw it at a wall, with all the force there was in him.

In a flash Mrs. Hudson was there, her eyes wide and frightened. "Sherlock? What in the world…?" That was when she saw something on his face. He'd never know that it was tears. "Sherlock, good grief, what is going on?"

Sherlock's lips opened thrice before he found his voice. Or a part of it, anyway. Because he sounded nothing like himself. "We… We lost them", was all that came out of him. "We lost them."

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><p>TBC<p>

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><p>AN: Oh no…! Now this isn't going to be pretty. (winces) How helpless Sherlock must feel, under house arrest under those circumstances! And I'm not going to even start with John.

So… What's going to happen next? Would you like to read?

In any case, thank you so much for reading! And, well… If ya wish to leave a comment that box down below is the PERFECT place for such.

Take care!


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